


Little Lost Lamb

by eternaleponine



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Canon Trans Character, F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4598661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The demon's barb about Victor's lack of experience has gotten under his skin, and he decides to do something about it.  Angelique finds him on the street and decides to take matters into her own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Lost Lamb

"Are you lost?"

The voice was soft, a little husky, but sweet, and nearby but not too close. Victor turned to look for its source and saw a young woman – his age, perhaps, although he wasn't very good at guessing those sorts of things, for all of his study of the human body – a few steps away, her head cocked slightly to the side, her lips curved in the faintest of smiles.

It was a good question. Was he lost? He knew exactly where he was, and how he'd gotten there, and how to walk away. But he had never felt more lost in his life. He had come with a purpose, a mission, a goal, and now he stood at the entrance to a street where he could almost certainly accomplish it, and could not make himself take that step into the shadows to do it.

"I don't think you want to be here," the young woman said. "I don't think this is your sort of place." 

His gaze had drifted back down the road – more of an alley, really – and he dragged it back to her, to the broad mouth and sharp cheekbones and warm brown eyes that sparkled in the gas lights. A handsome woman, he thought she would be called, rather than a pretty one. Vanessa was pretty; he knew that, and this woman looked nothing like her... or very little like her, in any case. They both had dark hair, and were slender, and smaller than him although not by so very much...

"You don't know me," he said, and wished that he could find the edges that he knew his tongue could possess, to cut through that look on her face, almost a smirk, and send her on her way. And what was she doing here, anyway? No respectable woman...

But she wasn't, was she? 

She tried to look fine, with her hair combs and her gown, but he would put money (if he had any) on the fact that her jewels were the finest fakes a person could find, but fake nonetheless. And then there was her face, obviously painted in a way that a lady's would never be. But she was not a lady. She was not respectable. A step up from Brona, perhaps, but she would not be welcome in the social circles that his new colleagues inhabited. (Not that he was, either, but he supposed he would be tolerated. The title of doctor lent him at least a veneer of respectability, if nothing else.)

"You're right, I don't," she said, "but perhaps I would like to."

His eyes narrowed. Was she flirting with him? He wasn't very good at the games people played when they wanted to get to know each other more... intimately... and wasn't that what had led him here in the first place? Wasn't that how he'd ended up looking for – not companionship, he wasn't so naïve as to think that that was what he was seeking – but... something. A solution to a problem, he supposed. 

The virgin doctor. It was nothing to be embarrassed about; there were plenty of men who didn't go about sowing wild oats, and he had no intention of marrying any time soon. And yet when she'd said the words, when the demon speaking with her lips had teased out and cast into the air the best thing it could find to make him feel small, it had burned through him. It was meant to. He knew that that was the intent, to send him scurrying away to lick his wounds in the corner, and he hadn't let it. Not then.

But it had lodged in his brain, burning and burning there like a hot ember on a leather boot, slowly working its way down and through, until the heat of it was unbearable and he'd decided why not just take care of the problem and be done with it?

The trouble was he didn't have anyone to take care of it with, and he wasn't certain he could manage it even if he did. He knew the mechanics of it, of course, and his head was filled with poetry, and adding the two together ought to be good enough to be getting on with. But he lacked one critical thing: desire. 

He had never once, in all of his life, wanted to fall into bed with someone. The other young men at school had talked about women, about wanting to wed and bed them (not necessarily in that order, and not necessarily the same woman), and he'd never had anything to contribute to those conversations. 

It wasn't that he didn't crave affection – he was starved for it, and had been since he was a little boy. It wasn't that he didn't want to connect to other people, for all that he pushed them away. It was only that those feelings never made it south of his heart, and the thought of simply walking up to a stranger, handing over a few shillings (more than a few shillings, and didn't it get under his skin to know that the men down that alley made more in a night than he did in a week) and asking for... what? He didn't even know what he would be asking for.

With a woman it would be simple, wouldn't it? But the thought of being with a woman left him cold, colder than the thought of being with a man, and he'd tried not to ever think too much about that, how he'd craved the company, the acceptance, of other men more than he'd ever wanted it from a woman, but maybe it was that his father had been distant and his mother close, and...

"That's not what you want," the woman said firmly. "What you want is a nice stiff drink and a bite to eat."

"I don't drink," Victor said, his tone flat, the response automatic.

"Then I'll have yours," she said amiably, "and you can have tea. It's too cold to just stand out here indefinitely, don't you think? And I should hate to see your name in the paper tomorrow, poor lost young man found frozen to the paving stones."

"You don't know my name," Victor pointed out.

"An oversight I will certainly have to correct," she said, "over a drink. Come." She offered her elbow, closing the distance between them, and he very nearly took it before realizing that no, that wasn't right, that was backwards, and offered his own. She took it, her fingers squeezing his sleeve for a moment. "This way."

She took him toward what appeared to be the façade of a theater, but when they stepped inside, proved itself to be a restaurant, with a little box office off to the side. "The theater is down below," she murmured, leaning in close enough that her breath brushed his cheek, warm on his chilled skin. 

"Two," Victor said when the host approached, and they were shown to a table and presented with menus. He barely spared it a glance; he couldn't afford a place like this, or a place like anywhere, really. The money that Sir Malcolm had given him was running low, and there was still the rent to be paid and the coal to be bought and he should probably make sure that he could feed himself while he was at it. So when the waiter came back, he said, "Tea."

The woman across the table cleared her throat, and he realized then that he hadn't asked her what she wanted, but he would be expected to order for her, because women weren't allowed to speak for themselves, or some such nonsense. "Brandy," she murmured, "and a piece of the Black Forest cake."

He repeated the words to the waiter, knowing full well that the man had heard her, but who was he to argue with convention? The waiter nodded and stepped away, and there they were, two strangers sitting across a very small table from each other, with nothing to say.

Or so he thought. "I don't know about you," she – and they still hadn't exchanged names – "but I've had an absolutely dreadful evening."

"What was so dreadful about it?" Victor asked, knowing that that was what he was supposed to ask, and not having the energy, suddenly, to do anything but go along. 

"I was meant to be at the theater," she said, "and in fact I _was_ , right up until moments before I found you. But the gentleman – and I am forced to use the term a bit loosely – I was with apparently wearied of my company, and so I found myself at a bit of a loose end at the interval, my services no longer needed nor desired."

Victor blinked. Was that something that people did? Hired women to go to the theater with them? Surely everyone would know, and it would be a source of great shame... wouldn't it? But maybe for men of less lofty stature (but above his own station – he couldn't afford a night at the theater for himself, much less for two) it was acceptable. Maybe it was common. What did he know about the ways that ordinary people interacted?

Not that this woman was ordinary. Not by any stretch. He had grown accustomed to Vanessa, whose behavior frequently pushed right up against the boundaries of what society felt was acceptable for a woman, and on occasion stepped over it. This woman, though, due to her station or perhaps to her nature, didn't seem to recognize (or maybe she simply didn't care) that those boundaries even existed. It was refreshing, this boldness, and it made him want to be bold as well. 

"It's his loss," he told her. "Though I hope that it takes him some time to realize that, and that he doesn't come looking."

"If he did," she replied, "I would tell him that I was otherwise engaged, in much more pleasant company." She smiled at him, and her eyes sparkled, and Victor wondered what could possibly have sparked a falling out between her and the man that had taken her out for the evening. What sort of disagreement had they had? What fault could he possibly have found with her? But it would be rude to ask, and usually he didn't care about that, but he was intrigued by her, and it felt like it had been a very long time since he'd had anything remotely resembling a normal conversation, and overall, it was better to keep his mouth shut on the subject.

His tea arrived, and her brandy and cake. She took a sip of the drink, and a bite of the cake, and his mouth filled with saliva as he watched her take a bite, her eyes rolling back slightly. He thought some of it might have been for show, for his benefit (or to tease him about what he was missing out on – he got the distinct impression that she got a great deal of pleasure out of making him just a little bit uncomfortable), but it was at least partly genuine. 

"Would you like a bite?" she asked, holding up the fork, trembling with cake so dark brown it appeared almost black, and creamy frosting and a bit of deep red cherry. "You can have it on one condition."

"What's that?" he asked, his watering mouth feeling suddenly dry.

"Before I give it to you, you give me your name."

He almost laughed with relief. He could feel the corners of his mouth curve up into the faintest of smiles. "Frankenstein," he said. "Victor Frankenstein."

"Frankenstein," she said. "That's a mouthful, isn't it?" She offered him the bite of cake, and it was then that he noticed that she hadn't taken off her gloves. Was she supposed to? There were few other women here to compare her against, and furthermore, these weren't society ladies, and they didn't necessarily follow the same rules, or any rules at all. 

He took it, and the chocolate was rich on his tongue, and it was every bit as good as her face had led him to believe. He chewed and swallowed, and said, "You can call me Victor, if you like." 

She smiled, and it reached all the way to her eyes and set them twinkling again. "Victor. You must call me Angelique, as it's the only name that I have."

"Angelique." 

With names exchanged, it made things easier, or maybe it was the brandy loosening his tongue, and the tea soothing his frayed nerves, and the intimacy of sharing a fork to polish off the cake, trying to go slowly to savor it but watching it disappear between them all too quickly. They talked, too, mostly about inconsequential things, which usually would have annoyed Victor but she made every topic seem like one that fascinated her, and it was hard to get annoyed at someone who watched him so intently, as if she was truly fascinated about his opinions on the weather.

When the cake was gone, the waiter came back, and Victor paid the tally, holding his hand up to forestall any objection from Angelique. He didn't know whether any would come, since this had been her idea, after all, but she'd saved him from making a mistake and he owed her at least this. Because she had been right; he didn't belong there. If he needed to divest himself of his virginity (and did he need to, really?) that wasn't the way to go about it.

He stood and offered him her hand, helping her to rise. As they stepped back out onto the pavement, he saw her shiver, and if he'd had a scarf to offer to keep her warmer, he would have done so, but as it was he didn't have one so the best he could do was let her get off home. "Thank you," he said, "for a lovely evening."

"Are you leaving so soon?" she asked. "I'd thought... well, you'd seemed like a man on a mission. Just because I intercepted it doesn't mean it has to be an unsuccessful outing."

He knew what she was offering. He would have to be quite dense not to know what she was offering. It was what he had come looking for... after a fashion... and it would answer the question, solve the problem, however one wanted to look at it, once and for all, wouldn't it? But she wasn't just some rent boy in a dark alley. Angelique was a lady, or near enough to one, as far as these things went, and there was no way that he could afford whatever she would charge. He didn't know what the going rate was for a woman who worked in a house, with her own room to take him to instead of just pressing him up against the wall (or vice versa, he supposed) but he was very sure that it was more than he could part with and still be able to eat, especially with the money for their meal gone out of it.

"Come," she said. "You're thinking too much, I can tell. Let the details sort themselves out when we're inside and warm."

There was something in her eyes that made him pause as he started to open his mouth to refuse. It wasn't... desire... precisely, or at least not desire in the form that she was generally paid to feign. But it was something like it, something that made him believe that she might actually, truly want him to go along with her. Or she was a very good actress, on top of whatever other skills she might possess. Whatever the truth was, the act was good enough that he found himself offering his elbow again and allowing her to steer him through the streets until they arrived at a door marked with a discreet sign, and she let them in.

A woman greeted them, and her eyebrows went up when she saw Angelique. "My apologies, sir," she said, addressing him. "Do you mind if I borrow your companion for just a moment?"

He felt Angelique's fingers tighten in the crook of his elbow, and he reached across with his other hand to lay it protectively over hers. She looked up at him (although she didn't have to look up far) and smiled, but it was only her lips. "It will only be a moment, my dear," she said. 

Victor nodded and let her go, and pretended not to pay attention as they stepped to the side, their distance from him enough that he had to fill in some of the blanks in what was being said, but close enough that he was pretty sure that he was guessing correctly.

"I thought that you were engaged this evening," the woman – the madam, mistress, whatever the keeper of a house like this was called – said. 

"There was a change of plans," Angelique said. "It didn't work out."

"What did you do?"

"We can discuss it later," Angelique said. "But if I'm gone to long, this one might disappear, and then where will we be?"

"Are you sure...?"

"I'm sure."

"Money up front. He doesn't—"

"I know the rules," Angelique said. "Later. Please."

The woman sniffed, but she let her go, and Angelique came back over to where he was standing. "This way," she said, and led him to a room that had the appearance of lavish decoration, but on closer inspection it proved to be more flash than substance. Still, it looked comfortable enough, if he didn't think about how many other men had been in this room with her in the past. "Do you know," she said, setting aside her coat and then holding out her hands to take his, which he handed over to her even though he knew that really, he should be turning tail and running, "that I don't think I have ever had a doctor before?"

For a second he wasn't sure what she meant by 'had', but then it clicked into place, and his cheeks flushed, and not just because the room was kept warmer than any he'd been in in a long time. He cleared his throat. "Do you know," he countered, "that I've never had, or, well, been had... by anyone?"

She looked at him, blinking, and then closed the distance between them and reached up to touch his cheek with her still-gloved hand. "And suddenly it is all so very clear. My poor little lost lamb. Thank goodness I found you. I would never have forgiven myself if your first time had been... that."

"You never would have found out," Victor said. 

"And yet still it would have been unforgivable." She smiled. "I will make sure that your first time is everything you hoped it might be."

"I don't..." He didn't have any hopes for his first time, but he didn't know how to say that. The only thought he'd had about it was to get it over with. "Was yours?"

She took a step back, her hands dropping, and looked away from him. "A lady never tells," she said, but the teasing was gone from her voice. "I must have _some_ secrets, mustn't I?" She looked at him again, then, and her gaze was piercing, fixing him to the spot where he stood. "Although there are a few that I'd best tell you now, before we go any further." 

He frowned, wondering if this is when she asked for money, but that wasn't a secret, was it? He was very clear on the fact that this was a business transaction, however much her smiles and laughter and gentle touches tried to make him believe otherwise. 

Her eyes didn't leave his as she pulled off her gloves, first one, then the other, draping them over the back of a chair, then reaching up to unfasten her necklace, a bit of dark lace that closely encircled her throat. It fell into her palm... her broad palm, and the fingers were long but blunt, not tapered, and when he looked closely, he saw what the necklace had been concealing, more prominent now as she swallowed, waiting for him to respond somehow.

When she finally spoke, because he didn't, she asked, "Are you still with me, Doctor?"

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and in her dark eyes was a flicker of something that went beyond nervousness, and of course she had every reason to be afraid, didn't she? Not of him in particular, but of men in general, who came into this room perhaps not knowing exactly what they were getting themselves into. 

He hadn't known. Perhaps he should have seen, perhaps he should have guessed, but he'd been so wrapped up in himself, wallowing in his own worries, that he'd missed that she was... not entirely she. 

But she was. This was not a game to her, not a ruse, not an act she put on to appeal to a niche clientele. This was who she was, and if she was a woman with anomalous anatomy, well, there was so much variation in the presentation of the human form, why not this as well?

And he knew what it was like to feel ill at ease in one's own skin, not in the same way, perhaps, but if he was not medicating himself for the inescapable feeling of the world being too much, constantly pressing in on him and rubbing him raw to the last nerve, then what was it for? 

Yes, he knew what it was like to feel out of place in one's own body. 

"Yes," he said softly, "I'm with you."

"May I kiss you?"

He swallowed, feeling his own adam's apple bob, and suddenly his collar felt too tight, and he would have reached up to tug at it and loosen it, but the distance between them closed in an instant, and so he found himself with his hands resting on Angelique's hips instead as she took his face between her hands and kissed him.

He had no experience of these things to compare against, of course, but if he had to guess, she was very good at it, because when her lips parted from his, he felt a little dizzy, and he had to lean into her to keep himself steady. His lips brushed her skin as he breathed, and he felt her shiver, so he let her go, thinking perhaps she'd changed her mind.

"Will you help me?" she asked, turning her back to him. "I can't get it all myself."

His fingers, which he knew to be deft and capable when wielding a scalpel, suddenly felt clumsy, as if they didn't quite belong to him, as he worked open the fastenings down the back of her dress. He felt her hands come up to keep it from falling into a pool at their feet. "Usually gentlemen don't see this part," she said with a soft laugh. 

"I'm not a gentleman," Victor replied.

She looked over her shoulder at him. "I'm not talking about money or titles, dear doctor, although I suppose I ought to wish that you have some of the former. I'm talking about your nature, and I think that you are, or you can be, a gentle man."

Victor felt color rise in his cheeks. Here it was, then. "I... of course I have money," he stammered. "Only I hadn't planned on anything so... formal." Best just to get it out of the way. "How much?"

She looked away, then, removing the dress and going behind a screen to finish undressing, or maybe just to hide from the ugliness of the moment, because it did feel ugly, all of a sudden, when somehow it hadn't before. 

The silence stretched. He had the thought that perhaps he might just leave now, so that when she came out he was just gone. Maybe that was what she wanted. Yet he found himself rooted in place, waiting for her to emerge, or at least for her to say something.

When she did, it was so quiet he almost missed it entirely. "We'll worry about that afterward."

He remembered what he'd overheard, and asked, "Shouldn't you want the money up front?"

She emerged then, wrapped in a robe and with fire in her eyes, and... tears? No, not tears, not quite, but close. He couldn't tell if she was angry or if it was something else entirely as she once again closed the distance between them, and she was close enough now that he could smell the scent of her perfume radiating from her skin, and he wanted very much to reach out and brush a stray curl from her cheek, but he didn't dare let himself.

"Just this once," she said, "just for tonight, let's you and I pretend that we are who we want to be, instead of who we are."

"Who do you want to be?" he asked, his voice a rasp. 

"A woman," she said, and now there were tears, and he didn't stop himself now, he reached out and brushed her cheekbone with his thumb, pressed a kiss to her temple, just at the corner of her eye. "Who do you want to be?" she asked, her hand closing over his.

It wasn't who, but _what_ he wanted to be, but it wasn't something that he could say. Not out loud, not to her, not when this was all an illusion that would be gone in the morning, or more likely a few hours. He couldn't look her in the face and tell her that what he wanted tonight, all he wanted, was to be loved. 

"Yours," he said instead, and it would have to do, wouldn't it? It was the closest he was ever likely to get, anyway.

Her body crashed into his, her lips met his with bruising force, and he let his mouth part against hers, let her take what she needed, taking what she offered in return, and the rest of the world dropped away as easily as her robe when he slipped the knot from the belt. 

And if her chest was flat, lacking in the extra flesh that was meant to mark her as a woman, well, it wasn't so hard to imagine that not to be the case. If, when their hips pressed together, there was more there than some would claim there ought to be, what of it? She was a woman tonight, because that was what she wanted to be, and he would do everything in his power to make sure that the illusion was not shattered.

"You're overdressed, doctor," she murmured against his cheek, and then her hands were busy unwinding and unbuttoning and unbuttoning some more, pushing his shirt back off his shoulders, and he let her do it, trying not to think too much about what was going to happen, and how it was going to happen, because the study of medicine, and consequently anatomy, didn't exactly prepare one for this sort of circumstance. Instead he focused on the soft sounds she made as his lips trailed kisses down her throat and across her collarbone, and the fingers of one hand pressed at the small of her back while the other plucked at the comb in her hair.

"Go ahead," she breathed. "It's all right."

So he pulled it out and her hair came tumbling down, and it was soft as silk and fell in gentle curls and it smelled of some sort of soap scented with flowers or fruit or something light and pleasant and likely costly, but he imagined maybe it was one of her indulgences, and why shouldn't she have it? 

He felt her hand brush the front of his trousers, and he nearly jerked away, but her lips found his again as she worked open the buttons, and then they were sliding down his hips and there was very little between them now, and his heart pounded against his ribcage as very little became less became nothing. 

He was aware of the movement of their bodies through space, but the moment where he went from vertical to horizontal was dizzying, and what happened next even more so, as her mouth found its way to his hips, and then to places that mouths weren't ever really meant to go, were they? Except they were, he was sure they were, as soon as her lips closed around him, and he tried to warn her, he did, but either she didn't hear him or she didn't care. 

And then she was in his arms again, nuzzling his cheek but not kissing him anymore, and he knew why, it made perfect sense why, but it felt wrong, so he tipped up her chin and brushed his lips over hers. "Thank you," he whispered. "That... you are wonderful."

She lifted one shoulder and let it fall, and it felt as if her mask was slipping back into place, and he didn't want that to happen, so he kissed her again, more deeply, and pressed his body to hers. "Tell me how to please you," he whispered, because that was what a lover should say, wasn't it, or what a lover should do? 

"You've already pleased me," she said. 

"I mean—"

She rested a finger over his lips. "I know what you mean. I ask for nothing in return but the pleasure of your company." 

"May I kiss you again?" he asked.

Her smile returned. "As many times as you like." 

So he did. He kissed her, until they were both breathless, and then when they'd caught their breath he kissed her some more, and then, after all, she showed him how to please her, and curled her body into the shape of his when it was done.

"I should go," he said, but it came out more of a question than a statement, and she wrapped his arms around her, so he took that as a no and decided he would just close his eyes and let himself savor this, just for a moment.

He woke before dawn, with her still in his arms, and she looked peaceful, and he wondered if that was as rare for her as it was for him. He kissed the back of her shoulder, and she didn't stir, so he slowly, carefully, extricated himself from her body and the bedclothes, and got dressed. 

He left every cent he could spare (and a few that he couldn't) on the small table by the door, but it looked like so little when she'd given him so much.

He pulled his notebook from his pocket and tore out a sheet. 

_Angelique,_

_You truly live up to your name. Thank you for looking out for a little lost lamb. Perhaps some day we will find each other again. Always be who you are, not who they want you to be._

_Yours,  
V._


End file.
